Theory of Evaporation
by Zaedah
Summary: Preservation is the antidote to principle.


**Theory of Evaporation**

As it turns out, it doesn't come to that.

When opening a package, ticking is never the desired response. Every tactical manual devotes a section to acceptable reactions to this situation; unmarked box and its unfortunate soundtrack. It seems strange that at this fairly crucial junction in his continued existence, he has an abrupt and distracting urge to urinate.

This isn't fear so much as cosmic timing.

He'd log that distinction for later but is not convinced that later appears on the schedule. Besides, however unreasonable his bladder, Tony's not about to pull anything fragile from futilely protective layers when a potential bomb is beeping like Armageddon's timepiece.

Though there is some fine shrubbery nearby.

Perhaps they should both move in the direction of the finely pruned corporate greenery. Or any direction. Not that he's a coward but Tony's experience with explosives tends to involve a plasma screen and popcorn. But he knows his partner and while she won't be particularly sentimental about a warehouse full of kayaks, there is principle to consider. And she will. Repeatedly.

The code Ziva lives by, the one that meets a challenge in a dark alley and makes it cower, won't let a ticking box lie.

Preservation is the antidote to principle.

For all her talk of perpetual readiness, Ziva was the one who tripped the thin thread at the building's entrance. The unmarked box was attached the the other end. The bomb squad had been summoned in what Tony hoped was a voice to rival Chuck Norris' calm. Because he knew that she'd want to tinker, he'd appreciate someone other than Gibbs finding his scattered bits. The boss would likely kick at Tony's piled ashes since there'd be no skull to slap.

"We don't actually _have_ to defuse that," his wisdom tells her stubbornness.

"Should be a simple matter." Her fingers trace every wire, following each color coded path. A sideways glance and she detects his fidgeting. "I do not require you here."

According to the Ziva Translation Guide, this can be converted to: _I do not require your input but if you leave your testicles will feed hellhounds._

So it's the essence of male stupidity to note, "The beeping's getting faster."

She does have an attractive jaw, however tightly clenched, all chin-thrusting anger, the edge of which slices further comments from his tongue. But he still has to go. And really, it's her fault.

He might have said that aloud. And she's just the vindictive sort who would let a bomb discharge for spite.

"You are over-caffeinated."

The jitters are thus explained by half. "Because I was over-tired."

Also her fault.

Pliers materialize out of some hidden crawlspace in her clothes and it hovers from one wire to the next. Her grip is readjusted a few times in an exhibit as close to nervous as she's physically capable. A brain soaked in cinema wants to shout the merits of the red wire but the pliers dance between three other colors.

Indecisive.

That there's no timer, no visible countdown that he can set his death by, is an inconvenience. The quickening pings could be an indicator but there's nothing as grotesquely comforting as staring at descending numbers to divine how short a final prayer should be. For the benefit of none, Tony sums up the options.

"Decide or run."

The handles of the pliers are brought together, clamping down on a green wire and his eyes shut against the expectation of flying debris. For a moment, as silence creeps where explosions should live, he rejoices. It's an acceptable prospect that hers will be the first face he sees in this shiny new existence.

Except the wire remains intact.

"I am..." Ziva begins, then bites off the word, chews it into pliable shape and spits out, "uncertain."

His mouth goes dry, body depleted of vital moisture by an honesty she likes to cart out when he hasn't time to pick it apart. Which means he no longer has to contend with his bladder. The trade-off is less than desirable. What happens next shall be henceforth blames on the aforementioned caffeinated state with a footnote to highlight the previously cited gender-specific idiocy.

The pliers are snatched from her hand and with what he'd like Ziva to remember as the appearance of aptitude, Tony studies the wiring choices for approximately half a breath and...

Later, when the phrase 'dumb luck' is bantered across the bullpen, Tony merely sits back and basks. McGee, for all is downplaying, is impressed. And the hand that moments ago left an imprint on his cranium had only been so brutal because Gibbs had been very nearly emotional.

Or at least stoically resigned, which is practically the same thing.

In the end, Tony hadn't required the bush. He'll credit the lack of need on the theory of evaporation.

Later still, he'll explain to Abby n detail that the criminal mind believes in its own cunning. Clearly the bomber expected professionals to bypass the clichéd red wire, thereby ensuring carnage.

"I wasn't fool."

The sweet smile beneath sheet metal bangs almost leaves safe orbit. "Can't imagine why Ziva almost went for green. I'm so profoundly proud of you."

The hippo is squeezed in punctuation, a sad commentary mopped up by the fierce hug that follows. There's black pigtail adhering to his mouth and all is right in the unexploded world.

The clock won't let him sleep.

As it happens, ceilings aren't as fascinating as Michelangelo must have thought. White plaster, in all its uncreative glory. The bomb ticks with every stroke of the second hand, a steady countdown to... something.

Ziva mumbles in her sleep.

Tony will have to leash his mouth in the morning. Preservation over principle mandates no mention of how tightly she's holding him. Unconsciously, of course, since an unclingy woman wouldn't plan to choke off his circulation. In truth, it's uncomfortable. But the tick and its revelation is what prompts his eyes to inspect the ceiling for flaws while his torso is enrobed by thin arms.

It hadn't been the explosive device or the full bladder or his partner's insistence on heroics beyond her skill set. It wasn't even the threat of patently irreversible death. In the moments that count, Tony tends to veer toward noble, an annoying trait that rarely wins trophies. And his intermittent decency has everything to do with her.

The cut wire matched the hair band that he'd used to wrap her locks into a ponytail that morning. After an escapade against the wall had undone her carefully loose curls. She'd been uncertain and he couldn't let her wake in paradise with a hangover of guilt for the wrong choice.

Ziva's instinct had steered her to the color of his eyes. And for allowing him to be the basis of their survival, they'd have been dead.

As it turns out, it didn't come to that.

Tomorrow's agenda will include a provision for over-caffeination. And really, it's her fault.


End file.
